


Five Ways Nick Grimshaw Could Spend Valentine’s Day, 2014

by cashewdani



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashewdani/pseuds/cashewdani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See the title =)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Ways Nick Grimshaw Could Spend Valentine’s Day, 2014

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I spent a snow day on.

**one.**

“You should wear this one,” Harry says, pulling a Marc by Marc Jacobs jumper from pretty deep in the back of Nick’s closet.

“Don’t you mean _this one!_ ” he says, imitating Harry’s Marcel voice, but with no real spirit behind it. “Ugh, I don’t know why I have to do this.”

Harry doesn’t look at him, flicking through where his pants are hanging. “Because we want you to be happy.”

“By making me miserable.” He flops on the bed, melodramatically, just like Molly Ringwald would. He practiced a lot during puberty.

“It’s just dinner, and you might actually like the guy. You might be telling Ok! about this one day, Nick. _Oh, and Harry picked out the perfect Marc Jacobs number for me, Nathan commented how it brought out my eyes._ ”

“So his name’s Nathan then?”

“I didn’t say that.” Harry sighs. “Will you please just get dressed?”

“I don’t want to do this. Can’t we just stay in, get some takeaway and watch a garbage program over a bottle of wine?” Because that’s what Nick actually wants, to spend the night with Harry as he gets looser and sillier the redder his mouth is from a merlot. Dozing off on the couch with their legs all twisted up. He already knows he likes Harry, that he laughs at the right ones of Nick’s jokes and doesn’t mind that he’s a little bit anal about his music library.

It’s just easier with Harry.

Except for right at this moment when he tosses the jumper on top of Nick’s torso before heading towards the door. “Call me when it’s over. Let me know if he’s fit.”

“He might not even be fit?!” Nick screams after him, and he doesn’t like that it seems like Harry doesn’t answer.

**two**

It’s one of the Paul Smith underwear models. Nick honestly has no idea how he knows that, he’s so infrequently looking at their faces, but yep, that’s who is waiting in the car that Fincham sent.

“Thanks for coming out,” Nick says, and the guy nods, mostly looking at his iPhone.

Nick pulls out his own and texts Harry, _they sent me a twink, cheers xx_ with the two guys holding hands and the cat face with the hearts for eyes and the Valentine’s box of chocolates emojis after it.

Almost immediately, like he’d been waiting for it, Harry sends a response. _Shouldn’t objectify people like that GRIMMY_

He has no idea why his name comes out in all caps on Harry’s end, or why he doesn’t fix it, but it’s been that way for ages.

_this guy is paid to be objectified I think it’s on his CV_

_Well talk to him because right now you’re being a rude date_. And then Harry sends a fork and knife and a glass of wine separately in their own message.

Nick wonders just how strange it is that he’d rather keep texting Harry than talk to the incredibly fit and present model in the car with him.

 _probably why I go on so few of these. Thanks for the tip_ He pushes the phone back into his pocket and turns, saying, “I didn’t catch your name.”

**three.**

Nick unlocks and opens his own front door to find the lights already on and no Puppy running to greet him. “‘M home!” he yells from the foyer, but there’s still no sound of nails on his hardwood.

Because when he walks into the living room, Harry’s busy rubbing the Jack Russell’s stomach to a point of near ecstasy on the dog’s part. “Look at this little hussy,” Nick says.

“She just likes it when someone pays her a little bit of attention,” Harry says without looking at Nick at all.

“Please, she’s got her tongue hanging out of her mouth. I raised you up better than this, Pups.” Nick flops down on the sofa next to Harry, moving to put his arm around him, but Harry shifts away, bumping into Puppy with his thigh. She’s too strung out to even notice. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, just want some space.”

“Well, you’re in my house, on my couch, basically ruining my dog for life, so, space does not seem like the thing you were looking for.”

Harry asks “How was the date?” with a tone Nick hasn’t heard since he did his A levels. This real bitchiness that he thought you had to be sixteen to pull off this effortlessly.

Nick keeps talking like Harry’s not weirding him out incredibly. Maybe he’s drunk. There could easily be an empty bottle of wine in Nick’s sink right now in addition to the one that he’d left there from the other night. “He seemed nice enough. Fit. Don’t know who picked him out, but they did a good job.”

“You smell like him,” Harry mumbles, barely audible, but Nick still catches it.

“Yeah?” Nick asks, sniffing the collar of his shirt because he can’t really tell.

“I don’t like it.” Harry looks at him then, for the first time, and his face looks almost shuttered, like all the normal, happy parts of him have been closed off. Nick doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him this way and it makes his chest tight.

“I’m going to get some coffee, you want some coffee?” he asks, backing away from Harry and off the sofa.

“Whatever,” Harry says. “I should go. I don’t even know why I came over.” He gives Puppy one last scratch before reaching for his phone and car keys on the coffee table. “Glad you had fun tonight.”

Nick doesn’t remember saying that he did, and the way that Puppy’s whining matches his current mood exactly.

“Come on, you sure? You want to talk about something?” Nick runs through the possibilities in his mind: Kendall didn’t call, Kendall did call, but they fought, Harry called Kendall, but she didn’t answer, just lots of things involving Kendall and cross Atlantic phone calls.

“Nah,” he shakes his head, mussing up his hair. “I’ll listen on Monday, hear all the details.” Monday’s three days from now and that feeling like Nick’s ribs are knitting themselves together, interlocking, gets a little worse. “Have a good night, Nick.”

“Yeah, you too.” He watches Harry grab his coat, a green one Nick’s guessing is new because he’s never seen it. “Drive safe.”

Harry gives him a little smile at that and it’s the first time he’s seemed like himself. “Sure, Dad.”

“You know what, get into an accident, see if I care,” Nick says, and Harry’s grin spreads a little wider.

“Sorry for being a twat...I just...” Harry shrugs like he has no idea what there is to say after that.

“It’s fine. Get yourself home.” Harry nods and turns the knob and Nick stands there in the front hallway until he hears the engine turn over and the car pull away.

He takes a really long shower and when he climbs into his bed the sheets are cold.

**four.**

The whole day has been secrets and people laughing behind his back and it’s even worse than just having to go on a date in the first place, the way that everyone around him seems to be in on a punchline and he’s only gotten to the first line of the joke.

And Finchy must know that he’s going to bail if left to his own devices because he shows up with the Town Car. “Get in, our listening audience deserves this.”

“This is ludicrous. I have no idea why my love life needs to be part of the program.”

“Please, you made it part of it long before I did.”

Nick plays with his quiff in his reflection of the car window. “What if I just sit across from this guy and don’t say anything for the two hours. Will that count?”

“I don’t think that’s how this is going to go,” Matt says with a smirk, such an asshole.

They pull up outside a French restaurant that Nick’s heard of but never been to and he can’t believe he’s having a first date on Valentine’s Day at a place like this. “Well, go on then,” Matt shoos while Nick sighs.

It’ll be a story, he reminds himself. At the very least, it will be that. He adjusts his jacket and runs his fingers through his hair one more time before opening the door.

Most of the tables are filled, couples sharing snails and he guesses other French things, but then right there in the back, alone at a double, is Harry.

Nick laughs in an of fucking course kind of way and wonders if the rest of the Breakfast Crew is watching through a window, pissing themselves.

“So, Happy Valentine’s Day, popstar,” he says when he ambles over to the table. “You’re my date for the evening?”

“I am indeed,” Harry says with that smirk, and Nick has no idea how many devil deals had to be made to create this ridiculously good looking person in front of him.

Nick’s phone buzzes in his pocket and it’s a text from Matt. _I’ll accept your apologies at any moment now_

Nick ignores him, instead asking Harry what wine he’d like on the BBC’s expense account and how hilarious it would be if they were to hold hands.

**five.**

He just straight up lied. As the show went on that morning, he’d purposefully made his voice sound a little hoarser, coughed into his elbow during songs, and didn’t once bring up bailing on the date.

He went to lunch with Matt and only ordered a tea and said he was just going to go home for a kip so he’d be ready for later.

After the nap, which he actually took, because who is going to pass up something like that on a Friday afternoon, he’d posted a picture to Instagram of a thermometer reading 38.9, captured by sticking it in a mug of just boiled water. Simple caption: _feelin’ poorly_ and two sad faces.

Collette messaged him first, then Alexa, and oddly, in third, Matt. The girls had been sweet, clucking over him and asking if he needed anything to just give a call. Matt was less sympathetic to his plight.

_You actually sick Grimshaw?_

_Don’t feel up to going out tonight, send my apologies to the poor lad =(_

_I hope when you swallow it feels like daggers._ Nick had taken a screencap of that and started to microwave a Chicken Korma, planning out how many hours of Olympics he was going to treat himself to while the meal moved around in a circle.

He’s in the middle of a women’s qualifying curling match when he hears his door unlocking. He quickly pulls some tissues from the end table and crumples them around himself, leaning his head back against the cushions like he can’t be bothered to hold himself upright. Luckily the person at the front door is taking their time and he’s able to pinch some color into his cheeks.

“Hiya, Puppy,” he hears, quiet and low, like he doesn’t want to wake him if Nick happens to be sleeping, and Harry can be such a dear.

“Harry,” he wheezes out, sounding a little bit like a newly risen mummy, which is probably overkill. “What are you doing here?”

Harry rounds the corner and Nick does his best to look pitiful, even though he’s a little bit guilty about it. “Don’t strain your voice like that, man, you’ll make it worse. I brought you soup.” He holds up a takeaway bag and Nick feels like such an asshole. “You want some?”

“No, not now, maybe later,” Nick says, clearing his throat, which actually needs it after his BAFTA worthy performance. “You should go, I don’t want you to catch this.”

“It’s okay, what you watching?” Harry says, putting the soup down on the coffee table and coming to sit next to Nick like he’s not the carrier of plague. Which, he’s not, but Harry doesn’t know that.

“Ladies curling.”

“Riveting,” Harry says, placing his palm over Nick’s forehead. He feels himself flushing, a little ashamed under the attention. “You’re still warm, did you take anything?” With the loopy way his head is feeling, Nick’s starting to think that maybe this is karma and he’s actually ill now.

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s fine,” Nick says.

Harry doesn’t seem fully convinced though, and keeps stroking his fingers through Nick’s hair, like he’s going to pinpoint the exact moment that Nick’s body temperature comes back to normal. If he keeps doing that the answer is never.

“I’m sure you have way better things to do tonight than hang out with a sick mate,” Nick says during a commercial and while Harry is on his second glass of wine.

“Gemma was trying to get me to watch _Valentine’s Day_ , I’d rather be here. Plus, I knew your date fell through and you’d be home alone.”

“Yeah, about that,” Nick says.

“Rest your voice,” Harry tells him, nails scraping slowly over Nick’s scalp. 

Nick closes his eyes, just for a second, and when he wakes up, people are figure skating. “How long was I out for?” he asks around a yawn.

“Not long,” Harry says, and Nick enjoys the way he’s kind of curled into him. “Feeling any better? You didn’t snore much.”

“Yeah, I’m feeling good actually.”

Harry answers, “Good,” stroking his thumb under Nick’s ear and it feels too nice for him to allow it to continue.

“Can I be honest with you even though you’re such a good person who brought me soup and I’m a gross liar?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not actually sick, I just didn’t want to go out with a stranger tonight.”

“Wait, so you lied, publicly on social media to me and your co-workers and your boss and all your followers to get out of going to dinner with someone?”

Nick hesitantly says, “Yes?” because when it’s put that way, it is pretty terrible and Harry should just leave and never speak to him again.

But he starts laughing. “Oh my God, you asshole, that’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You honestly hate dating that much?”

“I hate the getting to know someone parts. And like figuring out the expectations and being awkward and second guessing everything. Like, I couldn’t have done what we did tonight with some guy I just met.”

“So this was your Valentine’s date then, you’re going to have to talk about it on the air.”

Nick shrugs his shoulders. “I guess.”

“Want to really make your fans flip?” Harry asks, and Nick knows that look. He loves that look.

“I’m not actually contagious,” he reminds Harry, who tilts his head down so he can kiss him.

He’s not sure who’s going to go more mental over the fact that he spent the night with Harry, Matt or Tumblr.


End file.
